


Into the Deep

by Lisafer



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gigolas Week, M/M, New Relationship, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-12 22:23:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1202722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisafer/pseuds/Lisafer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Éomer sees that Gimli has been wounded in the Deep, he worries about how the elf may take it...</p><p> </p><p>Response to Prompt #2 of Gigolas Week: Helm's Deep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into the Deep

When the enemy swept them apart, Gimli did not have a chance to look for Legolas or Aragorn. A tiny part of him – the part that could think of other things than directing his limbs where to strike, how to keep his footing – thought it remarkable that he'd been able to keep an eye on them so long.

He fought back with all his might, striking orc left and right, and keeping the steady tally of those he slew. 

“You fight as a man twice your size!” Éomer shouted above the clang of steel on steel.

“And like most men I've met,” Gimli retorted, slashing through an orc's belly, “you seem to think size is all that matters!”

Éomer laughed heartily, pushing two orcs back with his shield. “Fall back!” he commanded, to Gimli, Gamling and the other men within earshot. “Rohan to me!”

Deeper and deeper into the mountains they retreated, thinning the onslaught. Gimli wondered how many still challenged above; had Saruman's hordes taken enough damage? With each stroke of his axe, he felt a little less certain of their chances. Not that he had been altogether certain in the first place. 

A tremendous blast above – the sound Gimli associated with a mine explosion – made them all stop cold mid-battle, eyes focused heavenward. It was in this blind moment of terror that the blade fell against him, turning his cap and slicing into his scalp. It brought him to his senses, and his quick reflexes took over. His axe was imbedded in the orc's neck before he'd had a chance to swing his sword a second time.

They continued on with their battle fever, slicing and attacking with each breath. Gimli did not know how much time had passed, as he moved from foe to foe. He helped fallen men find their feet again, he led others through the deep caverns in retreat, trusting his own sure-footedness.

When the horn sounded far above them, the men of Rohan shouted around him. “Helm! Helm is arisen and comes back to war!”

“Helm for Théoden King!” Éomer shouted, rallying his men. The orcs, who cowered and covered their ears were no match for the men of the Riddermark. They retreated swiftly, and the men followed in hot pursuit, yells rising from their throats.

“No,” Éomer commanded, taking Gimli's arm. “You are wounded, Master Dwarf, and this may be the only moment to wrap your head. I don't know how you've managed this fight, with blood streaming into your eyes.”

Gimli grunted. He'd not noticed the blood, in all honesty. “It is of no concern.”

“Your elf would disagree,” Éomer said. He ripped cloth from a fallen warrior, pausing a moment to close the man's eyes and whisper words in the language of Rohan. 

“My elf?” Gimli's voice caught in his throat. “Again, only little wit can excuse you.”

Éomer laughed, removing Gimli's helm. “He would have killed me for threatening you. There is no way I can pull you bleeding and pale from these caves and not face his wrath. Horse lords forbid you end up with greater wounds due to a loss of blood or impaired vision.”

“You know nothing you speak of,” Gimli growled, impatient for the man to stop his nonsense so he could get back to the task of hewing orcs.

“Shall we make a wager then, Master Dwarf? For I know you are fond of games you think yourself capable of winning.”

“What would this wager be based upon?” Gimli asked, eying the man shrewdly.

“If the elf is alive when we meet up with the rest,” Éomer began, unaware of the shock of fear that coursed through the dwarf's veins, “my guess is that he will not leave your side until we are back at Meduseld.”

“And if he leaves me be?” Gimli asked. _If he leaves me be, I would win the wager, but it would be a bitter win_ , he thought.

“You may name whatever it is that you want.”

“And what would you want, should you be right?”

Éomer smirked. “Perhaps I would ask that you refrain from insulting my wit, since I will have proven myself to be more astute than you. Maybe I would ask you to tell the elf of this conversation. But I would not have you leave out the part about how tightly you grip your axe, or how you hold your breath when I speak of him.”

Gimli huffed noisily. “I will not accept this wager,” he said, “because I'm in the midst of a contest with Legolas.” 

The blond man tied off the makeshift bandage and patted the dwarf's shoulder. “So be it,” he said with a smirk. “I never thought a sturdy, stout dwarf who showed no fear in battle would be afraid of an elf.”

With a glower, Gimli brandished his axe threateningly. “I fear no elf, and no man.”

“Come, Master Dwarf. Let us go up top – there are more orcs to distract us from our deeper thoughts.” He lifted his sword and led the way, leaving Gimli a moment alone. Aye, the elf would fret over his wound, he knew. Éomer had found the truth behind their actions, of course. But Gimli still hesitated to think of Legolas as his. That could be dealt with after the battle, after the war.


End file.
